Page 33 of Kneel with the King
I shrug. “You look good.”
He turns slightly, giving me a sidelong glance. “Yeah?”
His knee brushes against mine. I’m sure of it this time, too. It’s not an accident. Something shifts between us, and I can feel the static electricity firing between us. His bright blue eyes dip to my lips once again, and something heavy drops low into my stomach at the way he’s watching me. And then he licks his lips, and I feel my pulse electrifying every nerve ending.
Does he have to be so hot? Makes it really hard to disengage with him.
The air around me turns quiet and thick—like a held breath.
“What else have you noticed about me, Glasses?” he asks, his smile teasing. Though now, his eyes are darker—and they’re boring into mine with such intensity that I have to wipe my sweaty palms on my slacks.
“It’s Ambrose.”
He nods. “Cool name.”
With every exhale, I can smell the whiskey on his breath, and I wonder how drunk he is. He seems like the kind of guy to be able to hold his liquor well.
Fuck.
I should go. I’m reading this all wrong. He’s just teasing me like all the guys in the office do.
“Have a nice night, Mr. Harrison,” I say politely.
His hand reaches out and wraps around my wrist, and I suck in a breath as he shakes his head once.
“You didn’t answer my question,Ambrose.”
Shit.What was his question? Because all I can think about right now is how warm and firm his hand feels around my wrist.
“W-what question?”
“What else have you noticed about me?” he asks, his voice barely a murmur.
When his eyes drop to my lips again, I swallow thickly. “This is a bad idea.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I’m just asking an innocent question, Ambrose. Humor me.”
The silence that passes between us is charged, and I hate the fact that I’m rock hard inside of my slacks.
I hate myself even more because I’m wondering if Asher is hard, too. I refuse to glance down—I can’t let myself go there yet.
Then he downs the rest of his whiskey in a single swallow and stands abruptly. “I need the bathroom.”
But he doesn’t walk away immediately. He hesitates—long enough to make it clear that he wants me to follow.
Long enough to make it my choice.
So I do.
I wait ten seconds, then slip off my stool and follow him through the dim hallway that leads to the back of the bar, pastthe storage closet, past the emergency exit. The bathroom door is cracked open.
He’s inside, bracing his hands on either side of the sink, head bowed like he’s arguing with his own reflection. He’s chewing on something—a mint, I think.
He sees me in the mirror, straightening and turning slowly. “You shouldn’t have followed me in here,” he says. His voice is low. Hoarse. Like he’s fighting this decision with everything he has—andlosing.
